Azure Profound Continent

  Leo stood at the edge of the fog wall, staring at the field of wheat.

  He wasn't ready to go in yet.

  A hundred and fifty thousand voices rattled around inside his skull. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the stadium lights, the sea of blue jerseys, and a standing ovation from both sides of the arena.

  He had liked it.

  That was the problem.

  The stalks of wheat swayed in a wind, golden heads dipping and rising in long waves. Somewhere deep inside, the Monarch walked its circuit.

  He was not like the wheat. He was not destined to sway back and forth, bowing when the wind told him to bow.

  He had done so many great things as a Qi Refiner. And he knew he was destined to do many more.

  But he could not let it get to his head.

  Confidence could breed contempt. The moment he started believing he stood above the wheat, above ordinary lives, he became the kind of cultivator who looked down from mountain peaks and saw insects instead of people.

  And the cruelest joke was that it didn't matter. However confident he was, a divine domain would flatten him regardless. Mateo Thandril could carve his name into Leo's skull and buckle his knees with a thought. Against that pressure, skill was irrelevant.

  Special enough that he couldn't pretend to be ordinary. Vulnerable enough that his specialness meant nothing against true power.

  He had been approaching the Heart of Flesh like a balancing act. Humility on one side, purpose on the other. Walk the line and hope you don't fall off.

  But the Heart of Flesh wasn't about balance.

  Stage Two. The Desire for Life. You must look at the stranger and feel their desperate hunger to exist as if it were your own. The technique didn't ask you to calibrate your importance against others. It asked you to recognize something that already existed in every living thing.

  Leo thought about what Coach Williams had told him before the game. The crowd wasn't cheering because Leo Chen was extraordinary. They were cheering because of what he represented. Hope. The hope that each generation would produce talents ready to fight and push the line forward. The crowd saw Leo and they saw a future.

  They were cheering for life.

  Leo looked at the wheat.

  He wondered what the wheat was cheering for.

  The thought stopped him. He walked closer, eyes level with the stalks, and listened.

  Wind moved through the field. Thousands of stalks brushing against each other, grain heads whispering. The sound rose and fell with each gust, and underneath it all was a rhythm that had nothing to do with the wind.

  The wheat was growing.

  He could feel it through his divine sense. Roots threading deeper. Stalks lengthening by fractions of a millimeter. Cell walls dividing and hardening. The whole field in slow, relentless motion upward.

  Did the wheat wish for the Monarch to disappear? Did it want Monarch Scattered Straw to die, so the stalks could grow unimpeded, reaching for the sun without the threat of the blade?

  Leo looked at the wheat.

  To be honest, it looked fine.

  The stalks that had been cut were already regrowing. The ones still standing swayed with a motion that looked less like fear and more like breathing. There was no tension in the field.

  The wheat did not care about Monarch Scattered Straw.

  The bowing. The reaping. The regrowing. The wheat did not experience these as catastrophes. They were seasons. One part of a cycle that included cutting and death and regrowth, and through all of it the wheat just kept doing what wheat did.

  Growing.

  Leo's gaze drifted down to where the stalks met the soil. He pushed his divine sense into the earth and felt the root systems tangled beneath the surface. Dense, fibrous networks fighting for every inch.

  The wheat didn't fight the Monarch.

  The wheat fought the ground.

  The reaper walked overhead and cut the stalks and scattered them, and the wheat endured it the way a runner endures wind. A thing that happened on the way to somewhere else.

  But the ground was the real enemy. The wheat reached for the sky, and the thing that stood between it and the sky was not the blade that cut it down.

  The greatest obstacle that stood between the wheat and its own journey to the heavens was the dirt that gave it life.

  Leo sat with that for a long time.

  ---

  Exeter Daoist Academy

  Leo tracked down Vivian at lunch.

  She was sitting alone at a corner table in the dining hall, surrounded by three open textbooks and a tablet propped against a water bottle. Her tray held a half-eaten sandwich and an untouched apple.

  She did not look up when he sat down.

  "Hi, Vivian. I have a question."

  She capped her highlighter, and looked at him over her glasses.

  "You could have just texted me."

  "I know. But I don't really know how to put it." Leo set his tray down. "You're the smartest person I know."

  Her spine straightened a fraction.

  "Sure. What is it?"

  "Don't judge me for this."

  "I make no promises."

  "Why does wheat grow?"

  Vivian stared at him.

  She closed all three textbooks. Set the highlighter down. Locked the tablet. Folded her hands.

  "Define the scope of the question."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Biological mechanism? Evolutionary pressures? Agricultural history? Or philosophical question about the nature of growth itself?"

  Leo thought about it. "The last one."

  "This is about the Heart of Flesh."

  "You're asking why living things strive. Why they push against resistance."

  "Yes. Exactly Vivian! You totally understand me! Why does Wheat seem to fight to leave the ground?"

  Vivian let out a brief smile.

  "The answer is that it doesn't have a reason." She tapped her fingers, thinking. "Wheat doesn't grow because it wants sunlight. Wheat grows because the alternative is not growing, and not growing is not being wheat."

  She leaned forward.

  "Life doesn't need a reason to live. The desire for life isn't a response to a threat or a reward. It's the baseline. It fights the ground because pushing against resistance is what being alive looks like."

  Leo sat with that.

  "So the Heart of Flesh," he said slowly, "is about recognizing that the desire is already there. In everything. You don't have to create it. You just have to see it."

  "I don't cultivate the Heart of Flesh. I can't tell you how it works." She adjusted her glasses. "But if I had to guess? You should look into why everyone wants to advance in realm."

  "It's natural that everyone wants to work hard to reach Foundation Establishment and Gold Core. After all, you get an increased lifespan. But if we are all going to die anyways, why not just enjoy your time on earth rather than struggling so hard."

  Leo looked down at his untouched tray.

  "Wheat is simple," Vivian said. "Cultivators are not. The question is whether you can find the same simplicity inside a much more complicated question."

  Leo grinned.

  Tom dropped into the seat next to Leo, tray in hand.

  "Hey. Got a question."

  "Go ahead."

  Tom glanced at Vivian, who was already re-absorbed in her textbooks. He lowered his voice slightly.

  "So. Hypothetically. If someone had a lot of friends. And those friends were, you know, interested in certain outcomes of certain sporting events."

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Leo looked at him.

  "Are you asking me if you should bet on the Harvard game?"

  Tom winced. "When you say it like that it sounds bad."

  Vivian's highlighter stopped moving.

  "It sounds like what it is," Leo said.

  "The odds are really good, Leo. Like, really good. The sportsbooks have Yale as heavy underdogs because of Mateo's domain. My friends are looking at the line and they're seeing dollar signs."

  "That's matchfixing," Vivian said without looking up from her textbook.

  "It's not. I'm just asking for his opinion."

  "It's illegal."

  Tom pressed on. "So what do you think? Harvard this week?"

  Leo shook his head. "Don't bet on the Harvard game this week."

  Tom's eyebrows rose. "You're not confident?"

  "I'm going to use that game to test some things. Try different approaches to the domain. See what works, see what doesn't. I'll probably spend most of the match on the ground figuring out how to stand up."

  Tom leaned back. "So you're saying we lose."

  "I'm saying I'm treating it like a lab session, and lab sessions don't have great win rates."

  Tom drummed his fingers on the table, processing.

  "But," Leo said, "I think there's a good chance we win the conference championship. And if we win the conference championship, the national championship should be straightforward. Mateo is the only problem. Everyone else I can handle."

  Tom's drumming stopped. His eyes sharpened.

  "The conference championship odds would be even better than the Harvard regular season line."

  "Probably."

  "And nationals on top of that."

  "Probably."

  Vivian closed her textbook with a sharp snap. Both boys looked at her.

  She opened it again and resumed highlighting. The message was delivered.

  Tom stood up grinning the grin of a man who had just saved over a hundred thousand fans from financial ruin.

  "Leo, you just saved my friends a lot of money. The nationals line is going to be fantastic. And you know, me and a few buddies might throw a couple dollars on it. Just for fun."

  "Tom. I can't guarantee victory."

  Tom laughed. He clapped Leo on the shoulder and said, cryptically, "You're not in this alone, man. You've got an army backing you."

  Leo's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

  Arthur: Kid. I figured it out. Get online.

  Leo stood up.

  "I have to go."

  Vivian looked at his untouched tray. "You didn't eat anything."

  "I'll grab something later."

  "You always make me clean up your messes."

  Leo was already walking away.

  ---

  Azure Profound Continent

  Arthur was waiting at the fog wall, pacing. He had a ceramic jug under one arm and something that smelled terrible.

  "What is that?" Leo asked.

  "Napalm."

  "What happened to the Agent Orange idea?"

  "FBI showed up at my door."

  "The FBI?"

  "Apparently when you start asking around about Agent Orange, certain federal agencies take an interest." Arthur set the jug down. "Nosy bastards. I'm a Vietnam veteran. I've seen the stuff in person. But no, some desk jockey in a suit wants to know why an old man in Boca Raton needs a better weed killer."

  "So you switched to napalm."

  "Well, I didn't have a garden with weeds to kill, so I had to improvise. The problem is napalm needs oil, and these backwards hicks don't bother digging for black gold. So I had to go natural."

  Arthur uncorked the jug. The smell got worse. "Tree sap, rendered beast fat, and something Mike found in a ditch that I'm choosing not to ask about."

  "Arthur, you can't napalm the wheat field."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's a Deity Transformation Monarch's domain. The wheat will just grow back."

  Arthur's face fell. He corked the jug.

  "Actually," Leo said, "I had an idea."

  "Talk."

  "The wheat doesn't care about being cut. It regrows every time. But I was watching the roots today." Leo paused, organizing his thoughts.

  "Imagine the wheat as a cultivator trying to reach immortality. Every stalk is reaching for the heavens. Growing upward. Striving. And the only thing holding it back from ascending is the very thing that sustains it."

  Arthur squinted. "The dirt."

  "The earth. The soil gives the wheat life, but it also chains it to the ground. The wheat can survive the blade. It can survive the Monarch. But it can never leave the dirt behind. The thing that nourishes it is the same thing that keeps it from reaching the sky."

  Arthur stared at him.

  "You want to steal the dirt."

  "That's not what I said."

  Arthur's expression cycled through three emotions in rapid succession. Confusion. Irritation. Then something that looked dangerously like revelation.

  "Kid. That's brilliant."

  "You aren't listening to me."

  "If we take the soil, the wheat can't regrow. No soil, no roots. No roots, no wheat. No wheat, no Monarch."

  "That's... not really what I was getting at."

  "The wheat wants to grow, right? That's the whole Desire for Life thing you keep talking about?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "So we're helping it. We're freeing the wheat from this miserable field. Giving it a fresh start. A new life." Arthur spread his hands magnanimously. "Reincarnation."

  "Arthur, you can't reincarnate wheat by stealing dirt."

  "Watch me." Arthur's eyes had the gleam that preceded every terrible plan he'd ever had. "I already have a shovel. All I need is a wheelbarrow."

  "A wheelbarrow."

  "Think about it. Spiritual soil from a Deity Transformation domain. You know what grows in soil like that? Premium spiritual fruits. Medicinal herbs. The kind of stuff sects pay through the nose for."

  Arthur began pacing again, faster this time. "I transport the soil out. Find a patch of land near a spirit vein. Plant some seeds. Boom. Arthur Higgins, gentleman farmer."

  "You want to start a farm."

  "A plantation. High-end spiritual agriculture. Wealthy landowner." Arthur straightened up to his full height, which wasn't much. "I can smell a good business opportunity a mile away. An honest living!"

  "Nothing about this is honest."

  "It's agriculture! Agriculture is the backbone of civilization!" Arthur pulled out a communication talisman. "Mike. Get over here."

  Mike's reluctant voice came through. "I'm busy."

  "Drop what you're doing. We're going to the Ammo Sect to commission wheelbarrows and shovels."

  A long pause. "Wheelbarrows."

  "Industrial grade. Spiritual reinforcement. We're going to need at least six."

  "Arthur, I have better things to do than shoveling dirt."

  "Fine. Don't help. But don't come crying to me when I'm a rich landlord and you're a poor serf begging at my gate for a handful of spiritual radishes."

  The talisman went quiet. Then Mike sighed.

  "How many shovels?"

  ---

  Fifteen Hours Later, Leo's Next Respawn Attempt

  Leo stood at the fog wall and looked at the field of wheat.

  Then he looked at the suspicious hole at the start of the field.

  Then he looked at the conspicuous lack of wheat where the hole was.

  Arthur was right. Again.

  Leo pulled out his communication talisman with a sigh.

  "Well?" Mike asked.

  "Arthur was right. There's a giant hole here."

  "I can't believe the old bastard's plan actually worked." Mike paused. "Actually, I already guessed it would work when the soil we brought out was fine, even though the wheat we brought out withered and died immediately."

  "Great."

  "Be right back. I need to log off and tell Arthur." Mike hesitated. "Give me some time. He's going to gloat."

  The talisman went quiet.

  Leo tiptoed to peek over the edge of the hole. Even though he was a good distance from the hole, standing at the fog boundary, he could see the cross-section clearly. The layer of spiritual soil was only about three meters deep. Below it was just regular dirt.

  The root network was staggering. A vast tangle of spiritual roots filled every inch of those three meters, threading through the soil in dense white webs. Arthur must have used some kind of spiritual tool to carve through all of it.

  Leo felt around the fog. Yep. A pile of shovels and a wheelbarrow, hidden just inside the mist.

  He sat down at the edge of the fog and tried to figure out why this would work. The Monarch was a Deity Transformation entity. Its domain covered the entire field. The wheat, the soil, the wind, all of it was under the Monarch's absolute control.

  The best explanation he could come up with was that even a Deity Transformation profundity could not have anticipated that someone would voluntarily die over and over again to dig out a field with a shovel. The defense was calibrated for cultivators trying to fight their way in. Shoveling was beneath consideration.

  Or maybe the profundity was guarding something more dangerous deeper inside, and removing the outer layer would unleash something worse.

  Leo sighed. Then he started daydreaming about adding Monarch Scattered Straw to his merit record. A Deity Transformation kill at Qi Refining. Wouldn't that be something.

  The talisman crackled.

  "You're not going to like this," Mike said.

  "You want me to dig."

  "So basically, last time when we tried, we figured out that as long as one person stands at the fog boundary, the other can shovel dirt and pass it over for a good couple of minutes before the Monarch teleports the shoveler somewhere deep inside the field. Then the shoveler dies, respawns, and we do it again."

  "So I shovel dirt. Hand it to you. Die. Respawn. Repeat."

  "That's the general idea. I'll stand at the edge and transport the soil out slowly after you get killed."

  "Shouldn't I be training my divine sense? Or the Heart of Flesh?"

  "Arthur says you can train the Heart of Flesh at the same time."

  "How?"

  "He says maybe if you shovel the wheat you'll learn more about the wheat. Identify with the wheat. Become one with the wheat. His words."

  "Do you actually believe that?"

  "No."

  Leo waited.

  "But," Mike said, "even if it doesn't help with the Heart of Flesh, if we can get a Deity Transformation merit stamp out of this, it'll all be worth it."

  Leo looked at the hole.

  "Where's Arthur?"

  "On his way to New York. He's going to get Kevin and Shen Tianyi to stop dragging their feet and come back."

  "What about the formation Kevin was working on? The singular formation?"

  Mike snorted. "Kevin gave up on the Miller Formation weeks ago. He's been trying to hit on Shen Tianyi's sister. She showed up somehow and Kevin has been, quote, 'exploring new avenues of interpersonal cultivation.'"

  "Of course he has."

  "But Kevin will want in on the Deity Transformation merit stamp. More hands, quicker work. And Shen Tianyi's been itching to talk to intelligent life."

  Leo stared at the shovel.

  "Plus," Mike added, "don't you want revenge for all the times Monarch Scattered Straw killed you?"

  Leo thought about it.

  "If I wanted revenge on everything that killed me, I'd start with the divine press. And maybe the person who started all of this."

  Mike laughed. "That's the spirit. Wait for me before you begin shoveling. I'm on the way over."

  ---

  The digging helped. Leo hadn't expected it to, but it did.

  After hours of carving through spiritual soil and pulling up root networks, you saw the wheat differently. The bowing looked a lot less like submission when you knew there were three meters of roots underneath.

  Vivian gave him a direction. Upward. Every stalk of wheat pushed toward the sky, and every cultivator did the same. The pursuit of immortality, the hunger to break through to the next realm, the refusal to stay where you were planted.

  It was a little contradictory, uprooting the wheat and then trying to identify with its desire for life. He wrestled with that for about two days before deciding it was just some dumb plant and he would only grow dumber if he thought too much about it.

  He was making progress.

  He started measuring his actions inside the divine domain by shovelfuls. The number crept upward slowly, each shovel another moment of consciousness maintained inside a divine domain.

  The trench was visible from the fog boundary now. A long, ugly scar in the golden field, three meters deep and widening daily. On the other side of the fog formation, piles of spiritual soil sat stacked in neat rows. Mike had already begun scouting for suitable farmland.

  Then it was Saturday. The Harvard game.